


Saudade

by Bluephoenix669



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst and Tragedy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Ron Weasley, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreamscapes, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Feelings, Five Years Later, Gore, Healer Hermione Granger, Horror, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mental Instability, Other, Post-War, Psychological Drama, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Serpentine!Voldemort, Therapy, Unhealthy Relationships, dark!Harry Potter, graphic depiction of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 10:17:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12768927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluephoenix669/pseuds/Bluephoenix669
Summary: Five years after the war ended Harry Potter, star Auror and the man who defeated Voldemort finds himself confronted with that part of himself that never managed to fully heal, with nightmares that never fully left him and emotions plaguing his mind day after day.An experimental treatment, simple objects working to create what the mind desires the most. Doors opening to widespread yet imaginary possibilities.Possibilities who could never touch, or hurt Harry...... unless, of course, they were in the form of Lord Voldemort, whose sole desire was to haunt and possess the existence of the one who destroyed him.





	Saudade

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the result of one too many cups of coffee and strange dreams. I hope you enjoy it. I certainly enjoyed writing it. Not Beta-Read. If there's any mistake, I would love the feedback. If you like it, I'll love the feedback as well. If you dislike it, well, everyone's entitled to their own opinion.

Static. Then a faint, ringing sound penetrating his consciousness. Uncomfortable and persistent enough to drive his attention away from the chaos around him. Which was good, all in all. He had always hated crowds.

“It wasn't your fault mate” Ron's heavy tone slammed through the fog of Harry's current existence, as real as the hand clasping his shoulder. Real in its vice-like grip and in the shivery quality of its hold.

Fear. Harry could almost taste it, so thick it was. Present in pale faces that turned every now and then to watch him with furrowed brows and wary gazes before averting their stares, as if being caught was a synonym of imminent death.

“Of course it was” Harry finally replied, the first sound coming out of his mouth since he arrived hours ago in tattered robes covered in blood that was not his.

“It was your duty, Harry. They were the enemy. They...” But Ron sounded conflicted. As if the words were said mostly to convince himself.

“My duty was to apprehend them. Not to kill them.” To anyone, he might have sounded cold and indifferent. The truth was, Harry felt numb and unable to convey much of anything at the moment.

“Stop it. Stop with that blasted tone! You did what you needed to do and I'm sure Kingsley will see it that way as well. Less scum in this world, that's what it is.” Of course, Ron will see it that way. And maybe others will too.

But the truth of the matter was that he, Harry Potter, committed a crime today.

 _It was too late when his team arrived. The long, winding Diagon Alley in chaos. Bodies everywhere; a sea of robes, mangled flesh, and blood. Women and children. Men and elderly._ _It was a weekend. The holidays were approaching. The timing was cruel, yet effective._

_The scorching fire from a powerful hex had consumed part of Flourish & Blotts, and Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. Wizards and witches still ran, hid and screamed_

_There was laughter too. And a group of figures dressed in black. Their faces covered by stark white masks. Their wands out and hexing anything that moved..._

Losing control in his line of work was unacceptable. Letting emotions govern thoughts and actions often ended in death. Harry knew this but still made the mistake. Uncaring about consequences, procedures, or Codes of Conduct.

There were only Death Eaters, dead people he failed to protect, and a poisonous whisper in his ear.

_'Make them pay'_

But now that it was over, the crushing truth of what he had done weighed on him. Made him numb and breathless. There was poison running in his blood, destroying him from the inside out.

“Mate. Please stop beating yourself up. There's nothing...” But Harry stopped Ron with a rise of his hand.

“Five years. It's been five years, Ronald. We might not have _Him_ anymore _,_ but his remains still linger. They slipped right under our complacent noses to attack the very heart of our world. No one was supposed to die today. And yet the morgue's overcrowded. I should have suspected it. I should have been there sooner.”

Ron sighed and then crouched in front of Harry. Gripped both of his shoulders. He was so pale his freckles stood out starkly. His robe was covered in ashes and a nasty gash ran from his right temple to his cheek. “You, are no bloody Trelawney. You're Harry Potter and mate, I love you but you're being irrational right now and I wanna punch you”

Harry didn't smile. He stood instead, gently brushing Ron's hands away.

“Potter!” Kingsley Shacklebolt's voice boomed across the wide space. Several witches and wizards jumped in fright at the sound. He was flanked by two Aurors whose gazes were trained on Harry. “My office. Now!”

Ron paled even further. His hands turned into fists. He opened his mouth, maybe to offer reassurance or just to say _something_ but nothing came. Harry didn't expect it so he didn't miss it as he made his way towards the irate Minister of Magic.

 

&-&-&-&-&-&-&

 

“It is because you are who you are that you're not locked in a magic suppressing room right now, waiting to be sent to prison, Auror Potter.” If anything Kingsley wasn't subtle. His tone was, as always, that deep timbre that many found reassuring. Harry could say it felt anything but right now

“I don't need favoritism, Minister. Follow procedure, if you must” Harry stood tall and proud despite his general state. They were alone in the Minister's office, the two Aurors outside flanking the door. Kingsley was pacing, clearly distraught

“I have to give a press conference in an hour. A press conference to a horde of vultures who will not stop until they bury their claws on every single piece of information they could. And the truth of the matter is that they will be more concerned with _what you did_ than what happened to the unfortunate victims. Which is why I need you to tell me, so I can have something to _use_... What the hell you were thinking when you broke your Code of Conduct as an Auror and used fatal incantations against the wizards and witches you were supposed to apprehend?”

Harry didn't utter a word. Lips tight, face drawn.

“ _Reducto's,_ Auror Potter! Used more than once! And I am not mentioning the others, for Merlin's sake I am not. The ones in charge of compiling evidence had to scrape off bits of wizard off the bloody walls! I understand the situation might have... upset you. But this is insane!”

Kingsley took a deep breath. Tried to calm himself. Then glanced at Harry who in turn kept his gaze steadily fixed on the wall in front of him.

“You are an exemplary wizard, Auror Potter. You have won your position not because of your fame but thanks to every single drop of sweat I have seen you shed. Your work ethic and your integrity, not to mention your power and past accomplishments, would have guaranteed you the title of Head Auror. But now...” Kingsley stopped behind his desk and placed both hands on its surface, facing Harry head on. “Tell me it was an _Imperio._ I will believe it, Potter. Tell me that was the reason for your irrational loss of control, and I'll have my peace of mind knowing it wasn't really you _”_

“There's nothing I need to say, Minister”

“I understand the situation, Auror Potter. You are driven by a high level of morality. And seeing what you saw today at the Diagon Alley pushed your beliefs. Was it the attack itself, or who committed it? Was it anger born out of the injustice of the situation, or anger at yourself for not seeing it before it happened?”

Harry tensed, his green eyes flashing dangerously. He slipped his hand into his robe and took out his wand. Kingsley's gaze widened minutely. Harry smiled, mirthlessly.

“You will need to disarm me, wouldn't you? Here, I willingly offer my wand.”

Kingsley eyed it but didn't move to take it. He shook his head instead and gripped the bridge of his nose, hard enough to hurt.

“Rita Skeeter is going to have a field day. She will push for an investigation and I will have to comply lest I be accused of favoritism. Now, public opinion will surely be divided and you have many here who will support you. The incantations weren't illegal; that is our silver lining. The affected individuals were considered high profile criminals and that's another point in your favour. And of course, your fame plays a big role in how wizards and witches will perceive you”

“Rita Skeeter is a despicable human being whose sole purpose in life is to make far-fetched, disgusting stories to feed the need for gossip. No matter what you do, she's going to make the Ministry and its Aurors look like incompetent fools and I like the next Voldemort” Kingsley's mouth pinched just slightly at the mention of the name, the old fear never fully ceasing to exist.

“Which leads to my next course of action, that is your suspension, Auror Potter. Three months starting today.” Kingsley took this opportunity to move closer, and for the second time in less than an hour, a pair of hands gripped Harry's shoulders, this time in a way that felt almost paternal.

When Kingsley spoke, his tone was yet again gentle and reassuring. “You never took a break, Potter. After you destroyed _Him_ you threw yourself into a race to get this job. And once you got it you kept climbing and running against an invisible clock. All the people that were with you got some sort of closure. Therapy. Vacations. Hell, even marriages. But you just kept going. And I accepted this only because you were too valuable to let go of”

“And now I'm not. That's what you're trying to say?” Harry was beginning to lose patience, and it was obvious in the slight irritation coloring his tone.

“It's because I consider you valuable that I'm saving your arse, Potter. You are destined to greatness, to do magnificent things. It is you who decide whether they will be good or bad ones. Take this time to deal with your issues because we both know you have them. Then decide what path you truly wish to follow and take it.”

In the past, Harry would have probably yelled bloody murder or done something reckless. And yet, he felt too beat up and too shaken to do so now. He drew a long, resigned breath instead and closed his eyes. Loosened the tight hold over his wand before pocketing it, since it was obvious Kingsley wasn't going to take it. Nodded.

“You don't need to save my arse, Kingsley. Let Skeeter, all of them, write what they please. It will work in your favour, I believe. Better let her throw the mud at me than to tarnish the Department. After all, the possibility of a re-election is around the corner” Harry then pulled away from the hold and gave Kingsley a mocking smile.

“I was once labeled a pig ready for slaughter. Can't say the title of murderer will be any less degrading, Minister. Now if you excuse me” And then he left, Kingsley's sour-faced shock the last thing Harry saw.

 

&-&-&-&-&-&-&

 

_Whispering. Hundreds of voices. Their tones infused with feeling, their pleads drowned by how many they were. The echo of their anguish extinguishing; a tidal wave slowly covering decayed piling._

_White masks, speckled with blood. Flesh and bone. Muscle and blood. Everywhere._

_Before him stood the Dragon Alley, with a sea of bodies along its main road. The stench. Off colors everywhere. Dust and ashes dancing in the air._

_Static. Sudden. The dream distorting. The memory fading._

_And then._ _**Everything changed.** _

_His naked feet glided through a field of fresh ashes. Above and around him white and thick fog, akin to a wall. Long pieces of silk encased his body, some fluttering behind him and others dragging on the floor._

_Ashes clung to everything. His skin, his hair, his feet and the silk. Each step evoked a cloud of grey dancing gently then settling back on earth._

_Towering in front of him was the mouth of a massive bridge. Its foundations rusty by years of standing, the colors off yet its very presence conveying a feeling of eternity. It seemed to float in an ocean of fog. No water under and no sky above. Its only anchor the field of ashes he was crossing. The other side..._

… _white. No ending. No land awaiting._

_And yet despite the terror of the unknown, there was an impulse, a desire to walk forth. To step out of the field and into the coldness of that bridge. It pushed him, like invisible hands on the small of his back. The bridge drew near; its magnificence otherworldly. And he found himself weak but wanting._

_'Closer.'_

_He was spellbound. Fog enveloped him in a cold embrace. The silk covering him falling at his feet, piece by piece as his darkened foot stepped into the bridge and he rose his gaze..._

… _the whiteness waiting at the end clashing with a disembodied darkness, a mass of black swirling and twisting and spreading everywhere. Pulsing with a life of its own. Pulling him towards it._

_A gleam like a star. Then flickers of red._

_'Come. Come to me, Harry'_

_And he was terrified of that mass of black. But he wanted to._

_Oh, how he wanted to..._

 

Harry woke with a start, a hand extended towards the unknown; fog still flickering behind his eyelids and a horrible feeling of _longing_ deep inside his chest. He almost didn't make it to the bathroom, collapsing on the cold tile floor and retching the contents of his dinner.

 

&-&-&-&-&-&-&

 

_Harry Potter: The man who defeated Voldemort, or Britain's Next Nightmare?_

_By Rita Skeeter_

 

_'I always thought of him as too good to be true. I mean, who goes and defeats that monster and then continues life as if nothing?' With this remark, a wizard (who prefers not to be named for confidentiality purposes) raises the question of whether or not the man considered 'The Savior of the Wizardly World' is actually who he portrays to be. What is lurking, beneath those deceptive good looks? Is Harry Potter truly our hero or something far more sinister, hidden behind the skin of a lamb? Are his actions in the latest Death Eater raid the ones proper of an Auror or ones more suitable for an unhinged, sadistic individual? The whole story with exclusive photos on page 3..._

 

“What a pile of trash” Hermione left the paper aside in order to put the kettle on the stove, lighting the fire with a flick of her wand. “I heard from Ronald they tried to stop this from being published but that woman has her ways.” She murmured something highly offensive under her breath. Harry smiled weakly from his comfortable position on the sofa.

“Or maybe Kingsley didn't try hard enough, something I don't blame him for. Everyone has their opinions, Hermione. If Skeeter wants to insinuate I'm the next Voldemort, she's free to do so.” Hermione turned, hands on hips. Then smiled, albeit a tad sadly.

“It's weird to hear you so composed. Normally I would expect you to be yelling bloody murder. Ronald has been quite good at it”

“How is he? I hope not too overwhelmed. And you? I heard St. Mungo's still swamped with all the injured from the attack.

Hermione sighed, nodding weakly before going back to her task at hand. “Indeed. We are at full capacity; today's the first day off I've had in a while. But thankfully, casualties hadn't gone up. It's a bit strange, as I don't normally attend patients seeing I am more of a researcher but well, I had to leave my current project aside for a bit in order to provide help. And Ron, well he's...” She made a face, something between concerned and exasperated.

“It's been difficult for him; says everyone's tense at the Department. There's a lot of talking about you and it's not good, some of it. You know how he is, get's riled-up easily. Almost had a fight yesterday. Normally I don't condone it but there was an Auror badmouthing you. I think I will tell Ron to slip some itching powder in that guy's lunch” Hermione smiled at that and then with another flick of her wand organized a tray with the tea kettle, milk, and some cakes. Then with another movement and a whispered incantation made it float towards the table in front of Harry.

“Still, it's unbelievable. I can't even fathom how she's still publishing crap like this, more so about you. I have heard she received some criticism but not enough to deter her.” She sighed, sitting beside Harry and pouring tea for them both. He merely watched, admiring the brilliant glow that was one of his best friends. Her often bushy hair combed in a stylish bun, her St. Mungo's robes pristine and well tailored.

Then she turned, offering Harry the first teacup. Gazing at him as he took it, her brown eyes narrowing just slightly, observing. “Have you been sleeping well?”

“Jeez, Hermione. Do I look that bad?” Harry tried to joke at her bluntness, resting his teacup on his lap. But his friend didn't smile at his attempt, giving him a sharp look instead.

“You should take this suspension as your opportunity to reflect, Harry. Rest and find yourself. Ron will not say this but I will: what you did in that Alley was not you. It scared us. You have been too hard on yourself, pushing too much. Minds are prone to break under great deals of stress. And you have been under a great deal of stress since you were born. That, paired with your utter inability to take care of yourself...”

“Hermione...”

“No, don't 'Hermione' me. I love you, Harry. So does Ron. And we worry. Do you think I don't notice the bags under your eyes? Even before the whole... _incident_ happened, you were not fully yourself and you know it. Harry, if there's anything you need help with you know we are here for you, right?” And there was such _concern_ in her expression Harry felt the tendrils of guilt eating at him.

And for a moment he felt inclined to tell her. Tell her about that nightmare that had sent him spiraling. Tell her about the horrible impulses that had made him do the atrocious things he did on that raid. Tell her that since that fateful night at the Forbidden Forest there had been a _hollowness_ in him.

That he still felt, in a way, _dead._

The hand on his shoulder startled him. Hermione's eyes were full of worry.

“If anyone deserves peace and respite it's you, Harry. But you're still fighting, I can see it. There's nothing to fight against anymore, you need to let go. You deserve to be happy, Harry. There's no _Him_ anymore. We are worried. Molly and Arthur always ask about you. Ginny....”

“Stop, Hermione. Just... don't bring her into this”

“You know she still loves you, Harry. She hasn't given up even after your breakup. And I know you care about her and...”

“I can't, Hermione” Gently, he dislodged from her hold. “I thought I would be able to have something with her. A family and kids and a good, normal life but I couldn't. There's something...” But he stopped, hanging his head.

_There's something I don't have. Lost. Empty. And I don't know how to fill it._

“Something?” Hermione prodded, leaning forward.

“I don't want to hurt her, 'mione. I don't want to give her false hopes. She deserves better than someone who doesn't know what he wants with his life”

“Harry...” But he shook his head again and stood.

“I just need some time to myself. I'll be okay.”

But Harry knew just by looking at his best friend that she wasn't deterred. Much less convinced. And maybe it wasn't as subtle as Harry would have liked it to be, his request, but he couldn't bring himself to say it any other way.

Hermione ended up cooking a feast for Harry and leaving him with a small pharmacy of sleeping and peace draughts from her own personal stash

“I will love for you to spend a weekend with us. We can drink a bit, go visit the Weasley's, have some fun. Think about it, alright?” And then, softer “If you need anything, Harry please send us an owl. We'll be here in a blink of an eye” And he nodded because he couldn't trust his voice at the moment. Waved at her from the couch and watched Hermione leave with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

 

&-&-&-&-&-&-&

  
Work, Harry found out soon enough, had been his best shot at dealing with the thoughts that often plagued his mind. A drug, one could say. One that filled him with adrenaline and direction for a few hours and left him exhausted and mindless when it ended. 

Now that he didn't have it, it was painfully obvious how much he had depended on it. It didn't help that every day since Skeeter's outrageous article dozens of letters and packages arrived at Harry's doorstep. Letters proclaiming either his innocence or his guiltiness. Gifts. Howlers. Harry sometimes bothered to read them but often everything will end up in the hearth nurturing the flames.

He cleaned his house. So thoroughly he was convinced he could eat on the floor if he so wanted. Practiced magic, and read. But at night it was impossible to escape. His nightmares came back, spurned by that first one a few days ago. They all came back with a vengeance.

_Long winding corridors and veils that fluttered with whispering voices._

_Sirius, screaming for help while slowly being dragged inside the veil by decomposed hands who greedily snatched flesh from his body. His face torn and desperate, his eyes white and unseeing. His hand always extended, pleading for Harry to grab him._

_'Please, Harry! Don't leave me! Don't let them have me! Please don't let me go back there!'_

_And Harry will run towards him, screaming back. He would try so hard but the veil will always move out his reach. He would run and run and plead and try to reach for his Godfather's hand... but he would only grasp at air, and Sirius will always be devoured by the veil._

Those dreams always managed to wake him up with his heart bursting with pain and grief; screaming like a wounded animal.

_He dreamed about all the ones he cared for and lost. But instead of seeing them smiling around him, he saw their bodies lying in a funerary pile in the middle of the Forbidden Forest._

_His parents. Dumbledore. Sirius and Remus and Tonks. Cedric. Fred. Dobby. Snape, even._

_He tried to get to them but he couldn't. Tied and floating down to lay to rest in his own dug grave._

_The sudden gleam of black and blue burning his retinas as the pyre was lit and the bodies were burned. Screams, terrifying to his ears as his back touched the ground. As he gazed up at the dark sky clouded by trees whose leaves flickered with the color of the flames above._

_Then the soil began to rain on him. Soil and the ashes of his loved ones. He couldn't move, he couldn't close his eyes. It kept raining; covering him, suffocating him. He screamed, and the ashes covered his mouth, his nose, his eyes._

_He was so terrified. So... so terrified and trapped and..._

Those will wake him up in tears, horror clutching at him. He would curl on himself, unable to breathe, shivering and sobbing. Tasting ashes and with desperation clawing at his body.

But the strangest maybe were the times were Harry would dream of _that bridge._

 

_It will be the same. The dark, rusty bridge suspended in fog. Mist, it will feel so oddly familiar._

_His feet will always be dark with the clinging ashes and he will always be cold, surrounded by mist and fog. He will always walk towards the bridge. He will always step on it._

_The disembodied blackness will always be there, waiting for him. Far away. Calling him. With its darkness and its faint flickers of red._

_And he will not understand it. But he will still walk towards it. Because it will whisper so cunningly, and his pull will be like the one of a black hole. Impossible to resist._

_So very...horrible. Yet so wanted._

_'Come. Come to me'_

And always Harry would wake, just before getting to the middle of the bridge. Shivering and gasping. With his arm extended and with conflicting feelings waging a war inside him. Horror and wonder. Apprehension and want.

He would pace around his room, fully awake and unable to go back to slumber. He would think and ponder until the first rays of sunlight streamed through his open window. He would stare then at his mirror and his reflection will always comment on the sorry state of his face, and _didn't he need a haircut already? Tsk, the shame!_

A young man mid-twenties with too long hair and too green eyes. With a body that managed to grow taller and fill up handsomely but that still conserved the vestiges of a disastrous, stunted childhood.

At times, Harry will reminisce that childhood of his and his mind will fall into its own trap, remembering everything. From when he was eleven and his world was changed, to when he was seventeen and his whole life went to shit.

“So much for being the Savior of the Wizarding World if you cannot even save yourself, mate” His reflection once commented on a particularly bad night where he had ended curled up in the floor. And Harry had laughed, sudden but real because fuck, it was right.

 

&-&-&-&-&-&-&

 

Two weeks into his suspension Hermione send him a letter with a still excitable Pigwidgeon, who landed on a perch by his living room, nibbled at some toast Harry offered and then flew all over the place. His little, happy sounds enough to draw a smile.

 

_Dear Harry,_

 

_I have something to tell you. Would you mind meeting me for lunch at The Three Broomsticks tomorrow noon? Ronald sends hugs and hopes to see you soon._

 

_All the love,_

 

_Hermione_

 

And Harry, who was both curious at the mystery behind the invitation and had been going slightly stir crazy with the lack of sleep and things to do that didn't involve either reading or cleaning obsessively, sent Pigwidgeon back with his acceptance and few more morsels of food the little owl happily accepted, affectionately nipping his fingers before leaving.

 

&-&-&-&-&-&-&

 

“Harry! Here!” An enthusiastic wave of a hand, Hermione's smile bright. She was waiting near the bar's entrance. The chilly winter atmosphere had made her don a heavy scarf, mittens and a long coat over her St. Mungo's robes, few strands of hair peeking out. Yet she looked beautiful as always and when he hugged her, her honest warmth and happiness at seeing him along with the softness of her perfume made Harry feel good about accepting the whole thing.

“Ronald wanted to come too but he's swamped with work. They are... pretty busy at the Department” Hermione bit her lip, and her gaze moved along Harry's face. Searching but saying nothing else.

The moment they entered, faces turned and stayed poised over them. Hermione ignored them, grabbing Harry's arm and steering them towards the farthest table available. Eyes, murmurs, and heads followed them all the way until they reached their destination and were safely hidden from view by a tall, heavy-looking wood wall. For extra precaution Hermione took out her wand and conjured an _Imperturbable Charm._

“How are you, Harry?” Was her first question once they finally took their seats. It was blunt, and totally Hermione. Harry took his time to answer, noticing her somewhat anxious movements and the delicate, troubled furrow of her brow. The strange glint in her chocolate eyes.

Something was wrong. He knew this immediately.

“I am alright. Enjoying my well-earned suspension” Harry tried not to sound too sarcastic but judging from his friend's heavy frowning he failed spectacularly.

He wondered if it would be appropriate to tell her such an action often ended in wrinkles in the long run.

_Better not._

They stayed silent for a while. Harry took the menu, wondering what to eat. Hermione's gaze was sharp, probably catching on every single little detail wrong on Harry's physique. The bags under his eyes, the paleness of his skin. Probably coming along with percentages of dehydration, estimating the days without sleep and the meals not eaten. He let her because he was tired and the effort to put on a glamour was truly a waste of time.

And yet she didn't comment. Harry had the distinct feeling she was preparing herself to say something. And that something wasn't easy.

“They are opening an investigation, Harry. You will probably receive the owl in a few days. Skeeter's article and the pureblood relatives of the deceased Death Eaters pushed for it. They are arguing it was cruel and unusual punishment and that it went against the rights of those affected.” Hermione blurted the whole thing in one go, as one would a particularly nasty piece of news.

Ah. He was right.

Harry left the menu aside and set his hands on the table. “The 'rights of those affected'? The same affected who killed dozens of innocents in a ruthless and indiscriminate way, hm? What about them then, the innocents? Where's the trial and the justice for all of them?”

“I _know,_ Harry. Ron is _livid,_ as I am. As many others are. But Kingsley said it was a matter he can't fully control. Pureblood families still hold a great deal of power even after most of their names were tarnished by their affiliation with Voldemort. It's their right, to request an investigation.”

“Their _right?_ Please!” Harry scoffed, a hand running through his tired face. “So what's going to happen? A trial?”

“We don't know. You're not even supposed to know this but Ron managed to get the information and we wanted to warn you before the letter arrived.” Hermione grabbed his hand, tight. “No matter what, we will always be on your side you know this right? Always. Whatever stupid investigation they want to do, let them. You're going to come out on top”

Harry very much doubted that all matters considered. But he didn't want to say this out loud. Hermione looked stressed enough as it was.

“Which drives me to my next point. We cannot let you handle this by yourself and the holidays are drawing close as well. We will love to have you spend them with us; with some good food and company. We miss you.” She smiled then, warm and loving in that unique way Hermione often will be able to convey. One that made Harry unable to say no.

“I think I will enjoy that, yes. But let me... put my thoughts in order first. Just a bit more time, 'mione. I need to prepare myself for what's coming, before thinking about celebrations”

“And we will help you, of course! I already checked out some magic law books from the public library and I am currently reviewing the Auror Code to see if there's anything that might help you. Some clause or stipulation. There's...”

“Hermione, thank you. But when I mean preparing myself, I don't mean it that way. There are things I will be able to do better alone. Give me one more week. Then I'll move in with you guys. Good?” Hermione looked ready to argue a bit more but then she deflated. Resignedly, she nodded.

“Alright. Alright. I concede defeat. By Merlin's beard you're stubborn” She muttered, and Harry let out a short laugh. She startled a bit at that, her face lighting up. “It's been a while since I heard you laugh.”

“It's impossible not to when you're being so bossy” Hermione moved up to bat the side of his head but Harry ducked, laughing a bit more.

She sobered then, her expression grave. “Harry. There's a possibility they will want you to undergo some sort of therapy. I don't believe they will do more than that since your position and name holds a great deal of weight in the magical community. But they probably will not let you go unscathed, either.”

“Therapy?” Harry made a face, the idea both surprising and slightly ludicrous. “What kind? Will they douse me with potions and will my murderous tendencies away? Or maybe ask me to empty my memories in a Pensieve, for some healer or another to look at them and then recommend a suite in the _Spell Damage Floor_ at St. Mungo's?” Sarcasm dripped from his words, fingers drumming impatiently against the wooden surface.

“Well, that's actually quite possible. But we don't want that, do we? This is where I can be of help to you, Harry.” And then, as if someone had flicked on a switch, her whole expression seemed to take an eager, almost excited gleam. Harry frowned, slightly taken aback by the change. “See, a group of elite researchers, myself included, created an experimental therapy to treat wizards and witches who survived particularly catastrophic events.”

“Experimental... therapy?” Harry was baffled, the turn in conversation confusing him slightly. Hermione nodded, her gaze so intense it was slightly off-putting.

“Yes! We have been working on it for a year, and last month we were finally able to submit it for human trials. The results until now have been nothing but amazing! When the guidelines are followed it's a safe, effective therapy that uses only the minimal amount of equipment and mostly the patient's own magic. It doesn't alter the patients chemical or magical signature. And its results can be seen in a very short period of time! Harry, what we developed could potentially transform the way we heal maladies of the mind.”

“See, before the war, there were no treatments to deal with the scars left behind by either deeply traumatic experiences or irreversible curses. You remember how they dealt with the Longbottoms. Potions and potions until they gave up and confined them to a special ward in St. Mungo's. Useless draughts and the inevitability of the repercussions. But now, Harry? With this, we can _actually heal_ those who are still suffering, or so I believe!”

Harry's mind reeled at Hermione's lively explanation. Remembering the Longbottoms and those affected by the First War. Then those affected years later, by the Second. The initial months after it; the horrible nightmares and the terrible days that followed. The paranoia and terror. The constant state of overwhelming awareness. Opening the paper each day and watching the lists and obituaries that flowed like rivers full of death side by side with photographs of celebration

The comrades and friends who died. Those who were so badly injured they never were able to go back to a normal life or if they did, it was with heavy repercussions. People like Hermione and Ron, whose horrors accompanied them for a long time until they decided to eclipse them with mountains of happiness.

_Victims. Warriors. Survivors._

“That's wonderful, Hermione” And truly, it was. Harry would have never imagined his friend involved in such a project but now that he knew it, he didn't find it surprising. After all, he had always known Hermione Granger would end up doing marvelous things.

“Which is why I will push for the Ministry to accept my request for you to participate in it” And before Harry could even react she hurriedly added, “Hear me out first, Harry. I know you, alright? I know you enough to understand you never truly healed from what happened. You can put all the masks you want, all the bravado and all the smiles but I know you're still suffering. And with true reason. Of all of us, you were the one who lost the most and who saw the most. You _died_ in that forest...” At this, her words broke slightly but she valiantly continued.

Harry, in contrast, held stock still. The sharpness of his features accentuated by the sudden stoniness of his expression.

“We all suffered in our own ways. And yet you were our hope and our salvation. All the burdens of our world fell upon your shoulders and now that it's done the world sees you as their Savior but they don't understand. You have lived your whole life waiting for a final fight and probably there was a part of you who believed there will be nothing else afterward. Just you, _Him,_ and death.”

_You. Him. Death._

Hermione reached for Harry's hand, but he took it off the table before she could grasp it. Her hurt was visible yet he didn't feel remorse for it.

“Harry, please. The Ministry will impose you some sort of treatment. It's standard procedure when a government official commits such sudden infractions. Either that or prison. I truly believe you could benefit from this! There will be no draughts, nor strangers invading your mind. You will be in complete control of everything that's happening and you will also choose when to stop it. I am fully qualified to administer this therapy and it will only take a few hours of your time, few days a week. The results we have obtained until now are astonishing, Harry! Wizards we thought irrevocably affected have responded positively in just a few weeks. There's one...”

But Harry stood up suddenly, towering over Hermione who let out a slight gasp at the sudden action. “You think I'm broken.” The venom in his words was so tangible Hermione flinched. “That's what you talk with Ron in the comfort of you home? Poor Harry, so damaged. Wouldn't it be nice if I help him a little bit? He's fucked nowadays. He'll choose me because it's that or being stupefied by potions.”

“Harry, that's not what I mean. Please just let me explain it! We are worried, and we lov....”

“No.” And there was a coldness there, a certain kind of venomous anger. “Enough of this. All of it” Harry's eyes flashed dangerously, hands turning into fists before he turned and stormed out the tavern, the surprised and wary whispers of the patrons grating his ears as he left behind a devastated Hermione.

He apparated back home in such a frazzled state it was a miracle he wasn't splinched. Drawing his wand, Harry blasted the three ornamental vases by the fire. The portrait of the woman by the river, a gift from Neville and Luna, screeched and dove into the water.

Then in a move opposite to his initial rage, he slumped against the nearest wall and let his weight guide him downwards until he was sitting on the floor. Running a hand over his face he let his head hang as his mind wandered in a jumbled mess of thoughts

One of them so sudden yet so appropriate it took him slightly by surprise.

_'If he were able to watch this I'm sure he'll be laughing. Enjoying immensely."_

“Of course you will. Wouldn't you, sick bastard?” He whispered and silence answered him. Harry laughed then, mirthlessly.

He wondered if there was some truth to Hermione's thoughts. And then he reasoned that she was probably right. One had to be a little out of it to be talking to someone who not only had been their greatest enemy but also was quite dead.

He finally collapsed on his bed hours later after a shower and one too many glasses of firewhisky, exhaustion leaving his mind open and unguarded.

_And he opened his eyes, surrounded yet again by mist. Closing around him as he began, once again, his painstaking walk through the ashes and towards the bridge._

_But this time it felt different. It wasn't cold. And instead of being suffocating, the mist slid along his skin like a lover's caress. Pulsing with a strange vitality and pushing him forth._

_The bridge stood tall and menacing. Never-ending. And as always the disembodied blackness was there, surrounded by fog and spreading darkness everywhere. Infecting its surroundings and expanding, never truly solid. Waiting at the end of the bridge._

_Waiting._

_And yet this time the billowing darkness seemed to slowly solidify, gather and form. Long gone it's chaotic disorder, in its place now a shape._

_A tall shape whose very presence seemed to pull everything towards it: shadows, fog, and light. Feeding on them, like a black hole would._

_He felt the pull, too as his naked feet touched the bridge's floor. The figure seemed to pulse then shiver and grow denser, more and more as he walked towards it. Silk falling, piece by piece, uncovering his body as the shadows kept pushing him._

_'Come. Come to me. Finally... I have been waiting for so long'_

_A sudden, mind-shattering feeling. One that was both terror and longing, gripped at him as he watched the figure, darkness enveloping it, spreading and billowing._

_A flicker. And then, red eyes snapped open in the middle of that darkness. So very vivid and hungry, cruel and so very... very..._

_He wanted to run but his body locked on itself. He watched, mute and paralyzed as the blackness took the shape of an arm and a hand that rose towards him. Fingers crooked as if itching to grasp._

_'Come to me. Come to me, Harry'_

_Smoke curled around the figure's body, the glimmer of red then weakening. The blackness dispersing and the figure dissolving..._

_A breath of relief. It was gone. It was gone. It was g..._

_**Blindness** _ _._

 _Something cold and painful wrapped itself tightly around him, suffocating him in the confines of a snake-like grip._ _Darkness and shadows danced around him to then take the form of hands whose long, inky fingers ran free along his chest and his back, his throat, face, and hair. One of them rested against his pulse point, its touch like ice._

 _Terror,_ _then excitement. Both warring a battle inside his frazzled mind._

_A sudden, solid weight pressed against his back and the grip on him became tighter, the hands more insistent. Slipping along the planes of his body like they owned it._ _Someone was holding him. Someone who's body felt like condensed ice and whose hold was tight yet strangely gentle. Whose face was inches from his neck, and whose lips slid shamelessly along it to then rest on his ear_

_Then, like a sledgehammer to the temple its voice came; a sibilant whisper, one of death and destruction. So well known it instantly drowned him in a sea of terror._

_'You've been hiding for so long, Harry yet I finally found you. There's nowhere you can hide now' Harry struggled angrily, yet a feeling he didn't want to name burst in his chest. Hands like black ink winded around his neck to stop him._

_Coldness against his ear. Breath of ice causing shivers down his spine._

_'As long as you think of me I will never forsake you, Harry Potter' A grin, malevolent. A slight nuzzle against his temple. So very cold yet... gentle. 'Your memories... will be my eternity'_

_A laugh full of mirth. Then a hand that burst forth, suddenly so very pale and so very real, holding a gleaming dagger which was then driven through his chest._

_Horrible pain. A broken scream echoed in the whiteness as he sagged and then crumbled, held in place only by those arms which coiled around him tightly. Gasping and bleeding, he heard a satisfied hum. Felt a cold, lipless mouth caressing his temple then a hand tilting his head as easily as one would a puppet. Then felt that mouth again, greedily drinking the blood from his gasping lips._

_'Never forget, Harry. You are_ _**mine** _ _'_

Harry woke up screaming. He launched himself off the bed so suddenly he tripped with the covers and fell on the cold floor shivering as horrible, hacking coughs wracked his frame, a hand flying to cover his mouth...

… and coming back covered in red.

 


End file.
